


at midnight comes the cry

by Kyele



Series: heirsverse [4]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: AU of an AU, Alternate Ending, F/F, F/M, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 06:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4818845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kyele/pseuds/Kyele
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dude but imagine this: an AU of heirs where when they take the Bastille they start a revolution. The throwback mobs take over France, and topple Louis' monarchy. France needs a ruler, who better than the throwback first minister? And that's how Treville became a queen</i>
</p>
<p>(That's not quite how it happens.)</p>
<p>AU from chapter 39 of <i><a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2718833">ye heirs of glory</a></i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	at midnight comes the cry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox/gifts).



> This is from [an old prompt;](http://timeforalongstory.tumblr.com/post/115848163400/dude-but-imagine-this-an-au-of-heirs-where-when#notes) at the time, filling it would have been extremely spoiler-y for the end of _heirs_ , and the prompter agreed to wait. Still, they probably didn't realize how long the wait would be, and for that I'm sorry.
> 
> This doesn't follow the original prompt 100%, because as _heirs_ eventually revealed, both Louis and Anne support throwback rights, so there would be nothing for the mobs to topple. Instead I had to clear a different path for Richelieu and Treville to take the throne.

The Inquisitor glances to one side, where – to Richelieu’s astonishment – the Queen is holding a musket. And she’s pointing it right at Richelieu. At her side, Constanza levels another at Treville.

“Anne!” Louis shouts. “What are you doing?”

“What I have to,” the Queen says.

“Throwbacks are notoriously good fighters,” Rochefort says. “And they are known to become violent when their sin is revealed.”

“Imagine that,” Jean says coldly.

“But this is what guards are for!” Louis cries.

Rochefort shakes his head. “There are guards elsewhere in the palace, just in case,” he replies. “But guards may be overcome; guards may be defeated. These two would be willing to raise your hands to ordinary guards. I doubt they will raise their hands to their Queen.” He shifts so he’s talking to Richelieu directly. “And if you dared, you would be guilty of regicide, and I would need no other excuse to destroy you.”

Despair runs thick and heavy in Armand’s veins. He needn’t turn his head to look at Jean. Their bond is open between them. Jean knows as well as Armand that there is nothing left to be done. Jussac is safely away. The group storming the Bastille has an excellent chance of escaping, despite Rochefort’s machinations. The freed Musketeers will make excellent Resistance fighters. They will continue on under Jussac’s leadership and Mazarin’s, and one day their people will be free. All that is left to Armand is to die with as many of his secrets still intact as possible.

Jean slips his hand into Armand’s. Armand squeezes it in return, hoping that Jean can feel the love that still burns for him in Armand’s heart.

“Anne,” Louis breaks in as Rochefort starts back towards Richelieu. “Why are you doing this? How can you – do you even know how to use a musket?”

“Toreno taught me its use,” Anne says. Her voice shakes, but her aim appears rock-steady. “So that I could defend myself.”

“No one else was willing to listen to me about the Resistance back then,” Rochefort says triumphantly. He’s reaching out his hand now, stretching to seize Richelieu and drag him apart from Treville. “But I made sure the Infanta would not be left unprotected. And now everyone is going to know – ”

He’s cut off by the report of the musket in Anne’s hands going off.

Armand spins. Anne had swung the musket wide at the last moment: the ball flies past Armand, past Jean, past Rochefort, to embed itself in the door of the throne room. The door that had, quietly and unnoticed by everyone else, begun to swing open.

Anne drops her musket and snatches for the one in Constanza’s hands; Constanza, perhaps caught unawares, fails to release it in time. The two women end up entangled, struggling to free themselves, as the door bursts the rest of the way open and Musketeers and Red Guards alike pour into the throne room.

“You’re surrounded, Rochefort!” Athos cries. “Surrender!”

Rochefort turns slowly. His face runs through shock and rage before settling back into its mask of icy calm.

“Well, well,” he says flatly.

“What are you doing here?” Anne cries. She’s disentangled herself from Constanza and is now holding the second musket. Prudently, she’s keeping it aimed at the ground. Neither the Musketeers nor the Red Guards are yet doing anything so crass as pointing a weapon at their Queen, but it’s obvious to the meanest intelligence that will do so if they feel themselves threatened.

“I don’t know, Ana, but I will find out momentarily,” Rochefort answers.

“But – the palace,” Anne protests. “The palace was to be – ”

She cuts herself off abruptly. Richelieu takes advantage of the opening to step forward.

“I think we need to discuss some changes in the way France is run,” he says. “What were you saying, Rochefort, about being brought to heel?”

Jean grins at his side, fierce and proud. It’s his turn to start forward. Under the protective gaze of his Musketeers and Armand’s Red Guards, he goes to seize Rochefort in his turn.

Rochefort recoils from Jean’s approach. Several men raise their weapons, but Rochefort’s step has put him in the King’s personal space, and they all hesitate. That hesitation proves fatal. Even as Armand is opening his mouth to shout at them, Rochefort swerves suddenly sideways and seizes the King.

“What?” Louis cries, shocked. Rochefort slings an arm around his throat, tightening it until he chokes. With his other hand he raises a pistol to the King’s head.

Jean lets loose a dozen farmland swears. Behind him, the Musketeers and Red Guards have overcome their reluctance with regard to their weapons: a forest of pistols are pointed at Rochefort’s face. But there’s only one gun that matters, and it’s in Rochefort’s hands, not theirs.

“Tell them to back away,” Rochefort hisses. “Tell them to leave.”

Richelieu does no such thing. Instead he spreads his hands wide. “What are you hoping to accomplish here?” he asks, striving for a tone of calm reason. “Surely you must see that you’re out of options.”

“You’re the one who’s out of options,” Rochefort snarls. “You’re going to let me leave right now, with the King and Ana, or else – ”

“Or else what?” Richelieu raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Or else you’ll kill him? Honestly, George, do you expect me to believe that you’ll let the King live if I _do_ let you go?”

Rochefort stiffens. It hadn’t been a very good bluff, but he clearly doesn’t know what to do now that Richelieu’s called it.

“You’ll shoot Louis the minute you’re away from us,” Richelieu continues, grinding the point home. “You never liked him anyway. Too soft for you. And now you see that he’s been sheltering throwbacks, so of course you can’t let him live. You’ll kill him, escape with the Queen… ”

“Escape where?” Treville asks, after it becomes apparent that Rochefort will refuse to play his part in this little drama. Jean, by contrast, plays it perfectly. He and Armand have had decades to practice their verbal waltzing, after all. “Surely Rochefort has nowhere to go. The United Provinces won’t welcome him back after this.”

“I don’t think he’ll need to go that far,” Richelieu says softly. “Monsieur is in Lorraine, I believe.”

Rochefort had been stiff before; now he’s frozen. “Damn you,” he spits. “I should have supported Gaston more from the start! He’s the only one who’s been able to see just how far the throwbacks have infiltrated France.”

“Toreno.” Anne’s soft voice interrupts them all. The Queen takes a gentle step forward. The musket is back in Constanza’s hands; Anne of Austria holds empty palms out to Rochefort beseechingly, and her eyes are wide. “Jorge. Please. Let my husband go.”

“He’s been betraying you,” Rochefort says to her. “He was supposed to protect you, uphold the laws of God, but all the time he’s been letting the throwbacks live. You’ve been surrounded by them, Ana! How many more of them are there hiding in France? Among your nobles? Your courtiers, your servants? They have been next to you every day and you didn’t even know. Smiling at you. Dressing you. Touching you!”

“I – ”

“I can’t let it go on any longer, Ana. I swore an oath to protect you, when you were a girl in Spain. I’m going to keep that oath. I’m not going to let them touch you again.”

“Jorge,” Anne says again, desperate. “Whatever it is you’re thinking, or planning – please, just listen to me, we can – ”

“Don’t worry,” Rochefort repeats, interrupting the Queen to do it. “I’ll take care of everything. Just trust me, Ana. Do you trust me?”

For the first time Richelieu sees fear enter Anne’s eyes. Jean is afraid, too; he can feel it through their bond. Armand shares their fear. There’s something wrong about the way Rochefort is smiling at the Queen. Something wrong about the way Rochefort switches his gaze slowly back to Richelieu, taking the time first to sweep it over the assembled Musketeers and Red Guards, letting it linger briefly on Treville before it finally comes back to rest on his longtime nemesis.

“It’s over,” Richelieu says to Rochefort. He prays that speaking it aloud makes it so. “You’ve lost.”

Rochefort smiles.

Richelieu tenses.

“I may have lost,” Rochefort says serenely. “But it does not follow that you have won, throwback.”

He swings the pistol wide and pulls the trigger.

The sound of the shot is deafening. It is followed by a silence so profound that everyone, even those in the rear, hear the Queen’s low, shocked cry.

Anne crumples to the ground without a further sound.

“No!” Louis shrieks, twisting and fighting Rochefort’s grip.

“Your Majesty, don’t – ” Treville cries, lunging forward.

It’s too late. Rochefort drops his now-useless pistol and draws a long, wickedly serrated knife.

Now the assorted Musketeers and Red Guards fire. It’s to no avail. At least two of them are good enough shots to strike Rochefort’s exposed head. But no slow-moving musket ball can match the speed with which Rochefort draws the knife across Louis’ throat.

Richelieu’s King doesn’t have the chance even to cry out. He dies in a fountain of blood without making a sound. Treville is only in time to catch Louis; he cushions the King’s fall, and then kneels there frozen. Grief, sudden and anguished, flows through the bond. Jean stares down at the body of the King who had protected him, whom he’d sworn to protect in return, and his eyes dim with tears.

Rochefort falls next to them. He’s not quite dead. Either the shooters had missed or, more likely, they’d opted to take a safer shot given the King’s proximity. Richelieu forces himself to study the scene dispassionately, shoving aside his own feelings and Jean’s. Rochefort has perhaps sixty seconds to live. The King is already gone, his eyes glazed over. The Queen appears to have fared better. Rochefort’s shot had caught her in the abdomen, not the head or heart. Already Aramis is dropping his spent musket and pushing through the crowd to reach her, Adele at his heels.

Ignoring them, the Queen pushes herself up on one hand. It trembles and nearly folds underneath her. Constanza all but collapses next to the injured Queen, throwing her weapon aside to cradle Anne’s head on her own lap.

“Why?” Anne cries to Rochefort.

Rochefort, prone on the ground, turns his head to face them. “To protect you,” he says to Anne. Or rather, tries to say. It’s garbled but still understandable. “So you wouldn’t – fall into their hands. They’re animals. Better dead than – what they’d do to you – ” Rochefort coughs. Blood flecks the tiles.

“Damn you,” Constanza shouts at him. “Damn you, _damn_ you! – ”

She’s shouting at a corpse. Rochefort’s head lolls back. Now Richelieu can see the musket-ball embedded in the side of his head. He’d been dead from the moment it had struck: it had just taken a few extra seconds for him to know it.

“Your Majesty, please lie back,” Aramis is saying. “I need to examine the wound – he may have punctured something – ”

Anne suffers herself to be laid back. Aramis has torn off his cloak and is using it to wipe the blood away; several nearby Musketeers and Guards do the same, passing them to Adele, who stacks them next to the Queen and uses a few to pad her head and feet. “Keep them elevated,” she says to the Queen. Then to Aramis: “I don’t like that blood, it’s too red – ”

“Right above the pelvic bone,” Aramis says worriedly. “Your Majesty, I believe Rochefort may have perforated your uterus. I apologize for the indelicacy but I have to ask. Your miscarriages – has any physician said whether the organ itself may be – ”

Anne chokes. Several of the watching troops take futile steps closer, instinct demanding that they help even as reason reminds them there’s they can do. Adele lifts the Queen up to help her breathe. But that’s not the problem: Richelieu sees, to his great shock, that the Queen is _laughing_.

“I have no uterus,” she gasps.

Aramis pauses. “Was it removed, or – ”

“I never have. I – I’m like you.”

The rustles of shocked surprise are deafening in their own way, though quiet. Richelieu steps through them, feeling them brushing by him like cobwebs, closer to the Queen. He kneels by her side.

“Not like Aramis,” Richelieu says gently. “Like me.”

“Yes,” the Queen whispers.

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” Bernajoux can be heard in the background. Richelieu ignores him.

Soft footfalls echo through the place in Richelieu’s heart where Jean lives; Armand’s mate comes up to kneel at his side, hands and clothes red with Louis’ blood.

“Did Rochefort know?” Jean asks.

“No,” Anne says.

“My mother delivered Ana,” Constanza whispered. “She kept her hidden. When she died I took her place. We protected Ana – from everything – except – ”

“Except Rochefort,” Jean says sorrowfully.

“Aramis?” Richelieu asks.

Aramis exchanges a panicked look with his aleph. “I – ” he says helplessly. “I will do what I can, but – ”

“If the blood isn’t coming from – ” Adele starts.

Neither of them can finish the sentence. They really don’t have to; everyone else in the room can understand them well enough.

“God have mercy,” Constanza whispers.

“Clear the room,” Richelieu orders.

“No,” the Queen says. “No, please, wait – ” she twists her head in Constanza’s lap, though she’s careful to avoid moving her body, as much as possible. Her gaze roves quickly over the assembled Red Guards and Musketeers in the room, catching on the few faces who don’t belong to either corps, Charlotte and Charon and Flea. “You’re like me, aren’t you?” she asks. “You’re throwbacks.”

There’s a rustle among the crowd. Everyone seems afraid to speak. Finally Bernajoux steps forward. “Most of us, yes, your Majesty,” he says steadily.

“Then stay,” she begs. “I’ve lived my whole life alone. I’d like to die with my own kind.” Her breath vanishes for a second, leaving her to gasp, before she continues. “I’d like to hear your stories.” Her gaze returns to Richelieu and Treville. “Yours most of all, Cardinal.”

“You’ll do better if we can get you off the floor,” Aramis murmurs.

“What, hours instead of minutes?” Anne manages a breathy laugh. “As you say.”

Boisrenard snags Porthos by the sleeve; the two vanish. A moment later they reappear hefting a large, comfortable chaise lounge. D’Artagnan follows them with pillows. Another Musketeer Richelieu doesn’t recognize leaves and returns with blankets, which Aramis piles high around the Queen after Adele has lifted her – carefully, so carefully – and settled her onto the chaise. Bernajoux brings a chair for Constanza to sink into at Anne’s side. Constanza’s grip has shifted to the Queen’s hand. Richelieu notices that she’s never let go of Anne since Anne had been shot, but he puts that aside to deal with later. There’s a great deal that will have to be dealt with later – but with Rochefort dead, and all the other major players standing in this room, it can keep for an hour or two. It can wait for the Queen to die.

At Anne’s request, Richelieu tells his own story first. He tries to keep it simple, but he’s thwarted by the number of other people present who have had parts in it, who all speak up to flesh it out. Starting with Jean and spreading slowly outward, it soon stops being Richelieu’s story alone and becomes a great interwoven tapestry. The story of this generation of the Resistance. It begins with Armand’s sire’s betrayal and death alongside most of his lieutenants and oldest friends. It follows Susanne’s struggle to hold the Resistance together after the loss of such leadership, Armand’s rapid growth to adulthood, and his aggressive recruiting. Bernajoux and Boisrenard come into the story soon. Boisrenard makes the Queen laugh with the story of how they’d adopted young Cahusac, before the laughter twists into a grimace of pain and Aramis shakes his head slowly.

After that there’s less laughter. The stories grow darker, too. Adele’s supposed death, the burning of la Fère, the slow gradual rise of Catholic and Spanish influence. Everyone in the room has a story of love and loss to tell. Prompted by the somber atmosphere, even people who have never shared them before tell them now to the Queen on her deathbed. Anne hears them all with a grave face, like an intercessor or a judge, and Armand sees by the light on the speakers’ faces that they are left feeling blessed by the experience. So close to God already, perhaps Anne is speaking in some small part with His voice.

And there are still moments of light in the dark. Jean insists on telling Anne the full story of his and Armand’s disastrous first courtship. Anne’s gaze softens and her eyes mist. For the first time, she begins speaking of herself. She tells the crowd, as they listen hushed and respectful, of her hidden puppyhood in Spain. Of Constanza, who had come into the young Ana’s life as she reached puberty. Of leaving Spain to come to France. Of being prepared to be exposed and killed, after her escape plans had all failed her, only to find in Louis the most unexpected of allies. The years of happiness that followed with Louis and Constanza, in spite of Rochefort. In spite of Richelieu himself.

There are few dry eyes in the room, and Armand’s not ashamed to admit his aren’t among them. He’s spent so long underestimating Anne and Louis. The truth is as awful as it is beautiful. Thirty years Louis had spent protecting Anne, even from his minister, the feared and hated Bloody Cardinal. If only they’d known sooner. If only they’d _trusted_ each other sooner.

The Queen grows weaker. She reaches out blindly. “Cardinal?”

Richelieu comes closer. Jean comes with him, sensing Armand’s need for his presence without needing words. “Yes, your Majesty.”

“Kneel, please.”

Armand does so. Jean, again, comes with him.

“This isn’t legal in the slightest,” she says to him, seemingly apropos of nothing. “You’ll have to figure out a way to make it stick. I’m afraid there will be fighting by the end of it. Civil war, at the worst. My Louis wouldn’t have been any good at that. You’ll be better. I think you can do it. At least, if anyone can do it, without waiting another thousand years, it will be you…”

“What are you talking about, your Majesty?” Richelieu asks.

“There’s an army massing along our northern border. Lille was gathering it. The men he left in charge will march as soon as they hear he’s dead, the Pope be damned. And my brother – he always loved Toreno. If he sees an excuse he’ll pounce.”

“War,” Jean whispers.

Richelieu’s mind races. If Anne is right, France will find herself beset on two sides, rejected by Rome, and fighting a simultaneous civil war between those who’d supported the Inquisition and those who would support the Resistance. All of it without a King. Louis’ brother is next in line to the throne, but God help them, Richelieu can’t allow Gaston to take it. And yet, if not the only living son of Henry IV, then whom?

“You’ve got an army, haven’t you?” Anne asks. “You’ve got weapons and people. You can hold off Spain. The army will follow you,” she adds to Jean. “And the nobles will follow you.” This is to Armand again. “At least the ones that aren’t too bigoted to see straight. But I begin to suspect more of them are sympathetic than I’d realized… you’ve got many allies. They’re like you, aren’t they? Like us. That’s good. That will help.”

Anne paints a rosy picture, but Richelieu can’t help but worry that she’s being naïve. France might – _might_ – win such a war. Assuming the Inquisition’s support in France is less than Rochefort believes. Assuming the French army will indeed follow Treville, instead of turning on him for his role in Louis’ death. Assuming the French nobility will indeed follow Richelieu and whomever he can find to put on Louis’ throne instead of destroying themselves in petty infighting. Assuming they can quickly negotiate for aid from other countries that have rejected the Inquisition…

Anne’s wandering gaze changes focus. It lands on Jean.

“Toreno was saying something about you,” Anne says suddenly. “Earlier. You’re pupped?”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Jean says steadily, ignoring the rustle of surprise that breaks out in the room despite the solemnity of the situation. The only sign that it bothers him is the way his hand comes up to lie atop Armand’s, on the edge of the Queen’s couch, seeking reassurance. He adds, “But only just.”

“A kingdom needs heirs. That’s the thing I regret most. Never finding a way to give Louis an heir… he longed for children. You’ve got a head start. That’s good.”

Jean’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand.”

Armand does. It hits him like a bolt of lightning. He can’t help stiffening with the shock.

“Your Majesty – ” Armand starts.

Anne interrupts him. “I have no sons,” she says. “Nor adams. Nor daughters nor eves, for that matter, and I wouldn’t care what their sex or gender, if they were mine, I’d light the world on fire for them… braver for them than I would have been for myself, I suppose.” Anne’s eyes drift closed for a moment. No one speaks. Constanza’s bearing reflects the fear they’re all feeling, and the knowledge that the end is coming fast.

Not quite yet, though. Anne opens her eyes again. “No, I have no offspring,” she says more strongly. “So you will have to do, Cardinal.”

Anne reaches out and puts her hand on Richelieu’s hand, and Treville’s, where they are still held together. The Queen’s hand lays there heavily. Richelieu realizes with a sinking feeling that Anne no longer has the strength to support its weight. She’s fading fast.

“As I said, I have no legal basis,” Anne continues. Her voice is dropping; Armand has to strain now to hear. “You’ll have to take it by force. Gaston won’t go quietly. But you can’t let him have the throne, Armand. Take it yourself. You’ll be good for us. Make France safe for us again and lead our people to freedom.”

“I – ” Armand’s voice deserts him. The enormity of the task is all he can see. It’s nothing he’s ever planned for – and how foolish is that, to be the leader of a group tasked with the emancipation of throwbacks, and yet have no plans for what to do should he succeed? But he does, of course he does, it’s just that those plans don’t include rulership. He has a dozen strategies for how to be the trusted First Minister of France, the power beside the throne. He has none at all for how to be the throne himself.

“My Louis would have said the same,” Anne says. “He loved you like a father. It grieved him so that you were who you were – if he’d only known – ”

Armand’s vision blurs. Underneath Anne’s heavy hand, Jean’s turns and gives Armand’s a comforting squeeze.

“Go on,” he murmurs. It gives Armand the courage to dare.

“I will,” Richelieu swears simply.

“Good,” Anne says back just as simply. Her gaze drifts to Treville. “And for my sake, Treville, make them call you Queen, like you deserve.”

_Don’t hide your sex,_ Anne means. Titles are properly assigned by reproductive role, not by gender, as the Betas do it. Anne should have been called _King_ , or at least _King Consort._ She’s hidden under the wrong title her whole life. As Jean has, calling himself _Comte_ instead of _Comtesse_ , and never claiming the rank of _Duchesse_ that’s been his due as Armand’s mate.

Asking Jean to insist upon his right title is asking Jean to live openly as an Omega. To refuse to hide and conceal. To risk everything for the sake of being an example and an icon to those who follow him.

“I will,” Jean promises in his turn, without hesitation or fear. Jean’s always been an icon to his followers. All that’s about to change for him is the scope of that role and the number of those followers.

“Thank you,” Anne says. Something passes between she and Jean that Armand doesn’t decipher. He lets it go. It’s not important anymore.

Anne turns her head towards Constanza. Armand and Jean back away; Constanza leans in close. The confidante and the Queen speak to each other in voices too soft to hear for a few minutes longer.

Then Anne’s eyes slip closed for the final time.

From his respectful distance, Armand can only watch. Anne breathes her last, Constanza dissolves into anguished tears, and the world rearranges itself around them all.


End file.
